Free The Rockin' Chair by Steven Manchester Page B

entire farm. Lord, how I love this woman , he thought. It was the innocence and fun in Alice that John adored most. Fortunately, no matter how many years unfolded, the child in Alice never died. Each winter, during the first snow, John hid in the shadows of their bedroom to watch Alice frolic. And each year, without fail, the snow angel would appear and leave her mark.
    John’s focus returned to the present and he noticed that Alice’s eyes had cast their attention upon him. With love in his heart and embarrassment dismissed from his mind, he fell backward to the ground in one heavy thud. While Alice curiously looked on, he began flapping his arms and legs, making the impression of the snow angel he desperately missed. Three Speed whined at the strange spectacle. Giggling, Alice removed her thumb from her mouth and began applauding at the conclusion of the show. For a while, John just lay in the cold powder, crying. I should have done this a long time ago.
    While Elle babysat his infantile wife, John did what was necessary to keep the animals alive. Before the sun had completely risen, the mountains sent down an Arctic blast. Like white-stained glass, it was kind to the eyes, but to the thin flesh of an old man the air had the bite of a bear. John pulled the flaps of his red flannel cap down over his ears and got started. With each step, his back begged him to take things slow. He had no objections. His back had been good to him, allowing him to provide for his family all these years. In return, he did what it asked of him. He took his time.
    John tended to the chickens and rabbits, breaking the ice in each water bowl. Everything was frozen solid. At an even slower gait than Three Speed, his next stop was the big barn. Just inside the door, he paused gratefully to receive its warmth. It was only ten degrees warmer, but the walls broke the wind, removing a chill that cut like straight-edge razors. Spoiling Ginger with a few extra minutes of his time, he turned toward his row of milking cows. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a man; it was the distinct swagger of his long-lost son. Through a spiderweb covering the barn’s dirty window, he squinted to get a better look.
    Hank was dressed in new blue jeans and his Sunday jacket. He stopped briefly on the porch before disappearing into the house. The sight took John aback. With the exception of Christmas and other almost-mandatory holidays, Hank hadn’t been over to the house in years. The reason for this made John’s skin crawl. He could still picture that dark day in spring when he’d caught sight of the first road sign on the family’s way to hell.
    John and young Hank were out mending fences along the south border when a heated spat took place. For the life of him, John couldn’t recall how it started or most of the words exchanged, but it had something to do with a silly notion of “making changes around the farm.” Before the ignorance had ceased, his pig-headed son lit a cigarette and stormed off saying that he had taken his fill. John was disappointed with the cigarette but let it go. For reasons unknown to him, the boy was boiling in his own rage and vowed that he’d quit the farm forever. John almost thought it funny at first. They were words spoken in anger, with little thought put behind them. Come to find out, it was anything but a joke.
    That weekend, Hank and his new bride, Elle, moved their every belonging—which fit into two suitcases—across the creek bridge into the old bunkhouse. Alice told Hank, “Don’t be foolish. You and your pa need to work this out.”
    Hank just shook his head and kept right on marching. Alice glared over at John in disgust.
    â€œI didn’t tell him to leave,” John swore. “That’s his own stubbornness. He don’t need to go nowhere.”
    Heartbroken, Alice turned to Elle. “How will you two get along?” she asked.
    Elle was